Doorways
by Kpasa
Summary: Simply put, 5 times Jack lost the girl; and the one time he got the girl. S/J, ship.


**Summary: **Simply put, 5 times Jack lost the girl; and the one time he got the girl.  
**Season:** Starting from season 4 all the way to whatever season Sam was on Atlantis.  
**Category: **Ship**.** Fluff, lovey-dovey, all that jazz. Minor angst. Some bits are short, some bits are long.  
**Disclaimer: **None of this is mine. Really.  
**Rating: **PG-13.  
**Warnings**: other than an inordinate amount of swears and pointless ball jokes... not much.  
**A/N: **I wrote this in a spur of the moment, super *super* late at night. Not my best, *definitely* not my best. I didn't realize that Joe Faxon died before Sam even met McKay until after I wrote this, so just bear with me and do me a favor and mentally fumble with the timeline. 'Steady as she goes' is on hold t'ill I figure out if I want to pursue finishing it.

**Title: Doorways**

**

* * *

Rodney

* * *

**

What the hell was he going to do with this?

Jack flipped it over in his hand, staring at it distastefully. He tapped the bulky item with a primitive crudeness and winced at the inevitable cracking noise.

You think you know a guy...

...till your birthday rolls around and suddenly you're standing there acting pleasant all while trying to rid yourself of that age-old "what the fuck" expression.

'_Why Daniel, how did you know I've always wanted one?'_

Yea, he probably should have said that instead of the vague grunt of gratitude to the archaeologist's expectant face. But really, it took him 10 minutes to figure out what the damn thing even was.

Jack swung around the corner, trying to distance himself as far away from Daniel's lab as much as possible. He tossed it into the air, no harm done in taking it to the batting cage on the weekend, right?

He had to hand it to him, however. It was certainly an upgrade from the 8-track player coated in dust and hiding in the garage.

But he'd be _damned_ if he was gonna be jogging around with those ridiculous earphones swinging around his head.

What on God's green earth inspired Daniel to buy a Discman, a _Discman,_ for Jack O'Neill? All the potential present ideas... wasted. Hell, he even had a Stargate at his disposal to pick up any intergalactic goodies of all the alien markets they had visited; instead he ran to Radioshack and spent 20 bucks on this piece of crap. He couldn't even figure out how to turn the thing on, for cripes Sake's. Did he even own CDs?

Jack slowed down, realization dawning. This was a re-gift, wasn't it?

That _son-of-a-bitch_, he smiled ruefully as he passed by Carter's lab, the boy was finally picking up some good ol' fashioned O'Neill mannerisms. Hell, he was proud of the kid. This was merely payback for the fishing lure's he didn't need that one time and had re-gifted to Danny-boy on his 35th.

Yep, maybe his influence was finally taking its toll on...

"Hey Sam, when did you get so good with handling balls?"

...

Aaand three steps back...

"Years of practice McKay." A breathless laugh. _Her_ breathless laugh. Why the hell was she breathless?

"Never thought I'd say this, but you're a natural, Major."

He was met with a panting snicker. "What can I say, some girls are born for this."

Jack stared at the closed door for a few ticking seconds, sparing a furtive glance around before sidling his head closer to the doorknob.

"Sorry about them being so big, they're only used to my hands. It's not too awkward, is it?"

"C'mon McKay, what do you take me for? These are _nothing_, could do with bigger."

Okaaayy... he shot a baffled glance at the blinking red light of the pass-code.

"In fact, a girl could get bored with these real fast."

"Don't you badmouth my balls, Major," the scientist replied with a sniff, "they're perfect in every way."

And to think he wondered about the recent development of his eye twitch.

"Ooh, this one's glow in the dark."

What. The. Hell.

"I had no idea you were into this sort of thing, Rodney, I might have learned to like you a lot earlier otherwise... ooOumph."

"You got it? Good. Yea, I guess I've always been into this; you know it takes a lot of practice and precisely sized balls to do it successfully. You're comfortable with that? Alright, I think you're ready for another one."

Jesus. H. Christ. He hastily swiped his pass card, swiftly opening the door. And froze.

This time he raised both eyebrows. And God only knows he saved _that_ privilege for special occasions.

Juggling. Sam Carter was juggling.

And Rodney Mc-something was leering at her breasts.

It was a difficult toss-up to pick which doctor to reprimand first.

They hadn't noticed him yet, concentrating entirely on the performance at play. Carter sat on her lab counter, single-mindedly focused on the fluid spin of multi-colored balls. Her features were flushed with exertion, and a huge grin split across her face.

A slow smile spread across her CO's face as he watched the intensity of her expression, the glowing excitement on her cheeks reddening with each catch and toss.

She wasn't half bad. Albeit a bit rusty. Granted, thanks to the time loop, he could teach her one or two things himself... _oh so not going there_.

He should interrupt. He knew for a fact that Sam had at least three reports to finish by the end of her shift. And frankly he didn't really enjoy this sudden familiarity between the two. Purely out of concern for her, of course.

Her laughter rang out as she strained to catch one stray ball, before easing into a giggle at her failed efforts. His smile narrowed into a smirk, leaning one arm against the doorframe and a fist jammed into his pocket.

Maybe he'd give it a minute.

"You know, if you're going to be serious about juggling, it's best to leave your ball jokes at the door. Otherwise it's considered juvenile."

"Juvenile, me? Never!" She quipped back. "Besides, you're just saying that because you ran out of dirty gags."

"Did not."

"Did too."

Jack barely noted the unfinished reports haphazardly shoved to the side, focusing rather on the excited face of the proud doctor sitting on the bench below her, his lips twitching. McKay's glance had currently drifted to the taut pull of her black shirt across her chest as she strained to catch the red ball. ...Why that lecherous creep...

Sam didn't notice, instead she gave a breathy, goading laugh, playfully nudging Rodney with her boot as he waved a hand to distract her.

When the _hell_ did they become all buddy-buddy?

"Now juggle reciting the table of elements in alphabetical order."

Jack watched, fascinated, as Sam straightened her back and let out a breath. Without taking her eyes off the ball, she began to speak, slowly and concisely.

"Actinium... Aluminium... Argon..."

Who_ was_ this woman? How did he _know_ this woman? How the _hell_ could he have once thought this woman was boring?

"Arsenic... Astati -fuUuu..."

Fuck? Did she just say Fuck? This was not his Carter.

… Not that Carter was _his_, per say… but in the sense that-aw screw it, _this was not his Carter._

Did she just _squeal?_

An irritable thought began to throb in his skull.

Maybe this was Carter.

Nope. Nope nope nope. Not going there. Not going to dwell on that train of... Nope nope nope.

"Blue balls!" McKay cried out, startling a grimace onto the Colonel's face.

Sam flinched, barely able to catch on to the blue ball. She repeated the action of shoving him with her combat boot. "Too late, McKay, you already said to drop the dirty ball jokes."

He groaned in response. "But it was going to be a _good_ one!" He whined, much to Jack's disgust.

The Major demurely shook her head. "Too bad so sad." She donned him a taunting smile. "But you're right," she winked, "it would've been a good one."

Okay. Party's over.

Samantha Carter just winked at Rodney McKay.

Clearly he was going to have to skate home, because Hell just froze over.

Jack cleared his throat, loudly tapping the Discman package against the doorframe. Their heads swung to the doorway, balls falling in the air and rolling away in every direction possible. Sam leapt off the counter and stumbled over the scientist, identical expressions of "hand caught in cookie jar" forming.

"Am I... intruding?" He drawled with his signature-raised eyebrow, absently picking at his fingernail. McKay stood at attention, a cocky grin plastered on his face.

"Colonel."

Jack's eyes narrowed.

"Doctor."

"You can call me Rodney, Colonel." He responded brightly. He received a sardonic glare in exchange.

"Doctor. Your plane leaves in one hour. I suggest you be on it."

McKay's expression fell as he looked over at Sam, who was busy scuffing her boot on the floor. "Ahh..." He chuckled awkwardly, glancing away from her feigned ignorance to the Colonel's dispassionate disdain. "Sure thing." The scientist gave one last regretful glance to the Major's still unavoidably heaving bosom. Lech.

Sam eventually raised her head and smiled politely. "Thanks for the lesson Rodney." She glanced shamefacedly at her CO.

"Anytime, Sam, anytime." He winked at her, before turning a smug smile to the Colonel. Remembering something, he swung around at the last minute. "Oh, and Sam?" She looked up expectantly. "You can use my balls anytime."

Sam coughed, and Jack immediately opted not to remove his arm slung across the entrance. McKay chuckled uncomfortably, again, as he waited for the Colonel to remove his arm, eventually ducking down and sliding across the doorframe. Something else grabbed his attention.

"Hey is that a Discman? Man, I've been wanting one for a while, I have all these Barry White CDs my mom sent me an..."

Wordlessly Jack tossed the box behind him, rolling his eyes at Carter as McKay missed and fumbled. He quickly seized the opportunity to slam the door shut with his newly available hand.

At first he attempted to scold his face into a chastising expression, but one look at his 2IC's guilty, doe-eyed face forced a smirk rather than a reprimand.

"Well, I'd apologize for interrupting, but I didn't think you'd mind me breaking up such a tender moment between you two lovebirds."

Sam smiled, grateful for his leniency, before shrugging and leaning forward with her hands clasped on the counter.

"It's a welcome reprieve. McKay would never have let me live it down if I screwed up."

He raised an eyebrow. "You? Screw up? Hell, _I'd_ never let you live it down."

She gave an exasperated laugh, "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sir."

"You know I have every intention of remembering this the next time you try to confiscate my yoyos, right?"

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Sir."

He tilted his head, lips twitching. "You expect extortion?"

She shook her head woefully. "Oh just about every day."

He nodded at the scattered reports. "I guess I figured you were too busy with work to be afraid of a grumpy old man like me... Or, you know, too busy working in the world's most top-secret facility to spend the afternoon... juggling."

She had the good grace to blush.

"Well, Sir, you know what writing reports can do to you after awhile."

He nodded sympathetically. "What? Oh you mean that whole mind numbing, tedious, soul sucking and ultimately self-defeating aspect?"

She laughed. "Oh, you're familiar with them? Good, I thought it was just me."

They grinned foolishly at each other for a few ticking seconds, momentarily unaware of the rising tension.

Jack blew out a breath, sticking a thumb out behind him.

"I should, ah..."

"Yea, I'll, um, see..."

"See you when I see you..." He finished for her, opening the door.

Don't say it Jack. Don't say it, don't don't don't don't don't don't...

Oh, and Major?"

"Yes Sir."

"I've got balls of my own, ya know, could teach you a few tricks myself some time."

With a cocky grin copyrighted from McKay, he swung out into the hallway. He didn't need to stick around for a response; he figured the choking noises from behind him said it all.

**

* * *

Graham

* * *

**

Jack leaned his head against the back wall, blinking tiredly as the elevator doors closed shut. He listened as the thrumming of hidden mechanical joints working in perfect, succinct order buzzed against his ear. The artificial lights bombarded him from all sides, and he knew the build-up of shadows had centered itself on his face, seeping into harsh angles and blending into interlocking, jagged lines.

Today was hard. Harder than usual, he was surprised to admit. No real reason for it. As days go, it was fairly mundane. No off-world expeditions, no unexpected klaxons blaring, no Go'auld larvae festering in the Gateroom. Not an expressly _normal_ day_,_ per say, but certainly a welcome reprieve. Hell he should be grateful at least that Stargate Command could go one day without a life or death situation at play. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off. Which was exactly the root of the maddening gnawing in his gut. The on-world days at Stargate Command were painfully predictable.

Joked with Carter about blue Jell-O and lowly airmen with passionate crushes... check.

Got his ass kicked by Teal'c in the gym... check.

Put his fingers in his ears and sang incessant songs while a frustrated Daniel begged for help with tracing ancient pictographs... check.

Excruciatingly predictable, really.

But today the world seemed off-kilter, a degree off its axle and he felt dragged behind the pendulous turning.

Simply put, he felt... heavy.

The ding of the elevator jolted him into reality, and he ran a tired hand through his graying hair as he stepped out. He signed out at the door, and regaining his equilibrium he inhaled the warm summer evening. The sky that canvassed overhead had dimmed into a dark blue slate, nailed into place by invisible currents. The parking lot stretched out into murky lines, and crickets buzzed from the dark outline of trees peeking into the compound.

He felt her laugh reverberate through him before he even heard it.

But he wasn't going to look.

Unconsciously he felt his strides lengthen, refusing to take his eyes off the reflection of the gated floodlights hitting the black sheen of his truck.

The laugh eased into a throaty giggle, the rib-shaking kinda one that he rarely heard from her. It stretched and drifted into the soft breeze, the quietness of it superimposed in the emptiness of the lot.

But he wasn't going to look.

He yanked open the door, lifting himself up and tossing his jacket into the passenger seat.

A male voice accompanied the former, breathing soft laughter in the blue evening.

He sat in the driver's seat, the warm glow of the indicator light glinting off the plastic of the dashboard. His left leg hung out of the open door, and he stared down at his keys jiggling on his knee for a few ticking seconds, before lifting his head and resigning a glance across the compound.

She was at the far end, just beyond the perceptive, artificial sentinel of the floodlights. Their figures were dark outlines, abstract shapes, but he could still clearly make out their faces.

He stared in disparaging disbelief... but _damn_ Simmons had shit for a car.

They were sitting on the hood of the old Chevrolet, heads tilted together, completely at ease in each other's presence.

Just four hours before he had seen Simmons stutter incoherently and nervously drop his coffee mug when Sam had entered the commissary.

He narrowed his eyes; maybe that's why today seemed so off. Clearly he was in an alternate dimension.

The young Lieutenant looked happier than he had ever seen him. He sat cross-legged, animatedly waving his hands as he depicted a funny story. Both had changed into their civvies, and Jack blinked at the oddity of seeing them as their regular selves. Sam had leaned her head towards him, listening raptly with an ear-splitting grin before playfully shoving his arm. Simmons ducked his head in shy satisfaction that he had discomfited her.

It struck him, then, how young she was.

Sure, he was reminded of it often when they were off world, having to watch her effortlessly scale the alien terrain or run like a bat out of hell from a fleet of Jaffa. But in the darkness of the SGC labs, in the dampness of cold prison cells, and in the solitude of the empty blackness of deep space, she appeared to him to be one with the weight of the world on her shoulders.

He only knew of one Samantha Carter, and the uninhibited woman sitting cross-legged on a car playfully flirting was... he reluctantly admitted... a complete stranger to him.

They looked like teenagers, youthful and excited, their bodies unconsciously leaning towards each other. They were golden children, captured in a moment of warmth and light in which he did not belong. He smiled when Sam laughed so hard she had to bend forward to catch the spit. He shifted fully into his seat, closing the driver seat door as he unconsciously nodded to himself.

And he drove away, trying to shake the buzzing of crickets and laughter and floodlight humming from his ears; humbled by the knowledge that maybe he didn't know Sam Carter in the slightest.

It wasn't until he stopped at an intersection, with the artificial red glare of the light above washed on the dashboard, that he felt a swell of ridiculous pride.

'Atta boy, Simmons. 'Bout damn time.'

The soft glow of red flickered into green, reflecting the softness of his face. He drove home, intent on a cold beer and a Simpson's rerun.

But he still felt heavy.

* * *

**Joe**

* * *

Well wasn't this nice and awkward?

He blew out a low breath, tapping an errant elbow at the entrance of the Stargate ring as he stared out at the long dirt pathway leading out onto the Aschen planet.

They were taking they're precious sweet time, weren't they?

He tapped his foot impatiently.

You know, it was nice. It really was. It had been three months since the last admirer had captured the attentions of his 2IC. Three _blissfully_ celibate months where he didn't have to instinctively scan for hickeys on her neck.

Good things never really last, do they?

He risked another look at his watch. They were probably still chatting it up on the other side of the Stargate, making bets to see how easily they could piss him off.

Well that had already been achieved earlier when he arrived at the mess hall to find his seat snatched away by a blithering politician.

A _politician. _

He goddamn-well deserved his goddamn seat beside his god..._darn_ Major.

Ugh.

He had put up with a lot in his four years at SGC.

Well, yea sure, the Go'auld were a distinct pain in the ass, and that Niirti bitch really had it coming, and hey, yea he was sure that half the Jaffa fleet had a picture of his head for target practice and all...

But he'd face all that, every symbiote-infested and replicator-swarmed aspect of it all, rather than having to undergo _another_ month of uncomfortably private 'moments' to accidently barge into and interrupt. He lost count of the number of times he sat awkwardly by as Sam and the most recent notch on the belt shared sweet stares.

Narim.

Martouf.

Orlin.

He deserved a freaking medal.

Hell, he'd have ribbons sewed through to his pants for all the times he patiently waited out the coy conversations and sheepish grins. Those goddamn tender touches.

"Jack." Daniel called out from the far end of the road, motioning him forward. Reluctantly he stepped away from the ring, tossing another glance at his watch before settling beside his teammates.

Oh yea. He put up with the shy smiles... the longing looks... the awkward public flirtations... the long romantic walks taken while _he_ waited impatiently behind a cell. He put up with it, all of it, because she deserved it. Samantha Carter was a bright, attractive _(and young, did he mention young?)_ woman with the world at her feet; who spent her days hundreds of feet below ground level with a bunch of married, unavailable men, boring alien technology and an old grumpy CO to keep company with. She deserved to feel some semblance of the love that he couldn't himself express.

So every year he put on a brave face, and suffered through another bout of lonesome men pining for his 2IC.

Because he was a good, caring man who only wanted the best for her.

And the fact that they were aliens who at the time resided billions of lights year away had absolutely nothing to do with his benevolence.

He repressed a sigh, rolling back on his heels as he stared impatiently into the blue ripples of the Stargate.

But it was a whole 'nother story when this time 'loverboy' turned out to be an actual Earth human.

And a 'suit' at that.

He shook his head disdainfully. What could an experienced Air Force Major see in a man who dressed like an accountant? They were _off world_ for Pete's sake. Did the dress code mean _nothing _to people anymore?

Tapping an impatient finger on his P-90, he risked another look. The wormhole was still active; they probably got lucky and ended up being transported to some tropical island. Figures. He glowered; glad Daniel and Teal'c didn't catch the motion from under the rim of his hat.

He mentally mimicked a girly voice. 'Oh Ambassador, you're so cute and adorable; I'll just stand here and chat despite our pressing schedule because, well, holy Hannah you. are. just. too. _cute_. Oh Ambassador, sure your fancy shoes will be ruined, but I'll be right there to lick it clean. Oh Ambassador, want to make out over a Jell-O date? Oh Amb...'

"Sir?" She called out quizzically from the ring.

Oh.

Well la di dah. He was so _thrilled_ to finally be honored with her presence.

The two figures made their way closer to the rest of the team, shyly bumping into each other. Carter at least had the good grace to look sheepish about the long wait.

When they finally arrived to the rest of the group, she smiled softly at her CO, her lips curving into a secretive bemusement meant only for him.

Whatever had been squeezing his heart minutes previously suddenly relaxed its grip, and he quirked his head at her, knowing the look in his eyes were meant just for her.

All was right with the world.

When the Ambassador began asking economic questions to the scientist, Jack couldn't help but offer a smug smirk.

Well, if his sarcasm and nasty attitude couldn't drive Joe Faxon away, the ramblings of his 21C's mumbo jumbo would sure as hell do the trick.

* * *

**Malcolm**

* * *

Yep.

Now would be a good time to retire.

"And to think... that _bitch_ from accounting was sleeping with him all along..."

Or hang himself from the chandelier with his tie. Either way.

Jack O'Neill was a patient man. A patient man with many talents, (if fishing counts), this he knew. But faking interest was a skill he never truly mastered. Especially, oh yessiree bob, _especially_ when it concerned incessant prattle. The reality was, he never really found himself in a situation this dire. He never really had to; shutting people up with a single glance was a truly innate ability that he never really marveled at until now.

"I mean, if I *ever* felt compelled to cheat on _my_ husband, I probably wouldn't do it in the copy room for god's..."

But telling General Hammond's daughter-in-law to 'cram it' just seemed like a bad idea.

"Rumor is that she would leave her nice lingerie in her office desk until..."

Not to mention a career-killer. Which was sounding more tempting with each glass of weak champagne. Where was the bourbon when you really wanted to speed things along?

She cackled loudly, gently clapping his chest in amusement. Leaning back, Jack tried to keep the painful expression off his face as he offered a tight smile and an understanding nod. Whose idea was this? Why was he here? Why wasn't he _drunk _yet?

It wasn't until the woman's eyes sharpened into a semblance of wry interest that he got the horrifying intimation that maybe he should have shut her up long ago.

Oh boy.

After twenty minutes of frantically trying to untangle hands, feigning ignorance to her protests and offering the occasional reassuring wave to his glaring CO, he was finally able to back away. The minute the crowd swallowed up her scantily clad form, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Where was his team when he needed them?

Oh right, his lips twitched with an artificial bitterness; they deserted him the minute they spotted the open bar. Despite their assurances that they'd stick by him no matter what; they unceremoniously ditched him at the door, leaving him at the mercy of wealthy inebriated housewives. Traitors.

He snatched a glass of champagne off a passing waiter's tray, chugged it down and grimaced. The burn couldn't erase the discomfort of the evening, or the uncommon gnawing in his chest. His gut clenched, and he peered across the ballroom of buttoned-up generals and the bright glare of hundreds of ribbon medals, unconsciously scanning around for the mop of golden hair.

Beer. He meant beer.

The open bar, however, was infested with politicians. Clearly the security of the nation was in good hands. And somehow he didn't think it would leave a good impression to shake hands with the Minister of Defense while taking a swig of Guinness.

But he was never one for keeping up appearances.

He weaved through the crowds, camouflaged into an army of black tuxes. The room began to float in a heated simmer, and he was beginning to sweat like a boy scout in the girl's locker room.

There weren't any stark, SGC-commissioned fluorescent lights cast upon him. Instead there were candles and soft glows and warm golden shadows and all he really understood about all of this was his inextricable, essential need to find Carter.

Scratch that.

Find Daniel, he meant Daniel.

He was suffocating in here, the far-off cello music acting as a vice around his neck. Reminding him of vague memories of his ex-wife in a long ball gown, swatting at his chest as he trapped her in his arms, and a little boy waiting up past his bedtime.

Some unknown force inside him drew him like a string, pulling it taut and he instinctively sought to erase that memory. He could see in his mind's eye how Carter looked when she had walked in an hour previous, and the heat in his groin that accompanied his glance. It wasn't so much the modest, fluid black dress that dripped just above her knees; it wasn't the carefully applied make-up or the delicate barrettes in her hair. It was the way the soft glow of the chandeliers brought out the tan of her skin, darkening into a rich golden sheen that seeped from under the skinny black straps and ran down the sinewy length of her long, lean legs. It was the candlelight flickering amber shadows on a golden canvas. He wanted to see her so achingly bad, and not just to rid himself of that memory of Charlie scampering down the stairs as he took off his wife's jacket, fingers gliding over the pearl clasp of her necklace. He needed that laugh.

He shot back another gulp of champagne. He needed to get laid. Preferably with a brunette. A short one.

What he needed was a beer.

He spotted the swinging door to the kitchen and made a break for it. He sidled past panicky servers who paled at the sight of his class A's. He sidestepped the angry sous-chef, dodging frantic kitchen aides in their starched white uniforms as he self-consciously tugged at his tie.

"You have any beer?" He mentioned to a passing server, a bored teenager who smelled an awful lot like weed.

"Only one case left. Somebody already snagged it." He lazily jerked his thumb to a nearby hallway. "Rec room, third door on your left."

Jack grinned ruefully. Thank god. He jutted his fists into his pockets and moseyed on down the hallway, smiling at the thought of the cold drink.

It was her laugh that he heard first, and he briefly thought about turning around. But the bubble-gum-blowing server was watching him with bored interest, and well, he'd be damned if he was going to be a coward in front of a high school stoner.

So, with his desire for a drink dampened and his mood permanently killed, he sighed and pressed on.

There was that wretched giggle again.

He turned towards the entrance of the Rec room, pausing at the door.

The woman can juggle, play pool, build a motorcycle (not to mention a Naquadah generator), bowl a six-pack, and can now kick ass at Air Hockey.

He mentally groaned. The universe had to go and mess up his life by turning the perfect woman into his second-in-command.

He didn't know _who_ he pissed off in a previous life, but he was sure as hell paying for it now.

Arms shot out erratically, blocking and defending their respective nets as the black puck skidded on the white plastic rink, clacking hard against the sideboards. A case of half-consumed beer dangled on a nearby armrest.

He twitched his eyes suspiciously. Malcolm Barrett. Hm. This was new.

For the life of him he couldn't figure out why he didn't step forward, snag a beer and make an exit. They failed to notice his figure in the doorway, patiently watching with a defeated expression across his face. Sam was staring intently at the black puck, leaning forward and jutting out her arm sporadically at the first opportunity.

"So Malcolm, when did you become so interested in writing screenplays anyway?"

She tensed her body, angling an uplifted foot to signal her intent concentration as she blocked another shot.

"Well, I was the one who had to chauffer Martin Lloyd around after all that Wormhole X-treme nonsense... that man does not shut up, by the way. I guess somewhere along the line he got me interested. After three hours of him talking about tracking shots and slug lines and... hanging lanterns or whatever... part of you starts to think about these things. And this is the third time you've interrupted; do ya wanna hear the rest?"

"Right. Sorry."

"So when the ship is finally able to kick into hyperspace..."

"See, now I have problem. Their escape is too easy. I mean, slingshot using the gravity of the moon? C'mon Barrett, that's the sc-fi get out of jail card. You have to be a bit more inventive."

Malcolm Barrett rolled his eyes as he fished out the plastic puck from the net, pausing to shoot her a suffering look.

"Listen Ebert, I'm not catering to PhD students here. It's called suspension of disbelief. How they escape isn't nearly as important as the fact that they do and the plot moves on. As should this conversation."

"I'm just saying, don't underestimate your audience."

"God, you're a movie nitpicker aren't you? Only you would be satisfied with the technicalities.

Jack couldn't resist a grudging nod of agreement, absently thinking about every movie night spent with Carter. She shot the NID agent *the* look, the look that roughly translated into 'shut your face before I zat you up the'...

"Yes! Score for Sam!" Jack winced, more from surprise than annoyance. There was that squeal again. Successful in her defense tactic, she blew out a long awaited breath.

Jesus. Major Samantha Carter has a happy dance. 7 years, and he never knew this.

She stretched out across the table, intent on scoring, and both men unconsciously leaned forward. She shot Barrett a smug grin at her victory, failing to see that her partner's focus was somewhere else entirely.

He knew he should go. He knew the pothead server was still watching him. He knew any minute they would notice him, invite him over and chatter awkwardly. It was times like these that he really felt his age.

Yea, he should really interrupt. Get his beer. Go. Or maybe just that last part.

But something held him there, fixing him into position.

"What about the space women? Please don't tell me you're going to put them in tight latex jumpsuits with excessive amounts of cleavage showing."

Jack took a moment to fondly reflect on old nemeses like Hathor and Niirti.

For a moment Barrett sputtered defensively, before catching her mocking glance and offering a sheepish shrug.

"What's so wrong with that?"

"I'm just saying Barrett, hate to put a damper on your adolescent wet dreams and all, but I'll bet you ten to one that their boobs are sweaty and sticky and gross. I mean do you know what kind of foods can get caught down there?"

Both men made a face.

"Now, see, I coulda done without knowing that."

She swung her body, jerking it to the left as she blocked the puck. The skinny black strap slipped from her shoulder, and his eyes trailed its path down the golden sheen of her arm.

Screw it. He needed to go home.

Foregoing the beer, he turned around, his shadow leaving a blank space under the wash of the gold chandelier.

But it was okay, he told himself, jamming his fists in his pocket and shooting one of his standardized glares at the smirking server.

He knew Carter's type, and Barrett wasn't it.

Besides, he thought with a smirk, if Carter's previous love lives had any say whatsoever, Barrett's life expectancy coming up.

Sucker.

**

* * *

Pete

* * *

**

Her lips looked like bruised strawberries.

That's the first thing he thought of when she swung open the door that evening. She had smiled sheepishly, self consciously, stretching her lips into thin lines as though to erase the evidence.

He didn't know what was worse, Carter trying to cover up her happiness, or Carter's lips looking like that because of someone else.

Either way he knew he would never be able to look at strawberries, or Carter, again without that familiar ache in the pit of his stomach.

The bile rose up in his throat.

Damn. He had a good record going on. Seven years since he last puked. He clenched his jaw and distracted himself by listening to the light drizzle on the black sleet outside, pattering the pavement. He swallowed a belch.

Yep. Still drunk.

The brightness of the streetlight outside saturated the room from a whitewash finish to a puppet-show of shadowy reflection, long withered limbs of anonymous objects drawn into silhouettes on the walls.

A loud snort jogged him from his thoughts; he shot a glare at the sleeping archaeologist sprawled on the floor below him. It was too late to back out of Carter's invitation to spend the night in her guest bedroom, but was it really too much to ask for a set of earplugs? Or a .44, he thought wryly as the younger man began making helicopter noises.

Daniel was a good friend. The entire dinner he looked worriedly from Pete's affectionately placed arm tossed around Sam to Jack sitting at the other end downing yet _another_ beer. With a determined inhale, he had resolutely proceeded to follow Jack's example and spent the whole night catching up with him, chugging down the bitter liquid to meet Jack's pace so that his friend wouldn't be the only drunkard of the night.

His gut clenched again, and he stared longingly at the strip of yellow light peeking out from under the door. All his sensory neurons had been dulled by the liquor, all but for his stomach. He willed the muscles in his throat to relax. He really really really didn't want to spend the night puking up a hell-storm in the bathroom right beside the bedroom she shared with Pete.

The nausea that swelled from that thought overloaded his control, and he grimaced at the bitter tang at the back of his throat as his stomach contracted.

Fuck it. He swung the blanket over his boxer-clad torso and legs and staggered exaggerated steps over Daniel, unrepentant when his foot stumbled across his face.

Careful not to make a noise as the latch slipped from its trench, he stepped out into the dark hallway, pausing at the doorway of her guestroom. They were standing in the kitchen, their figures illuminated by the yellow light above the sink. They were quietly bickering.

'Sam." He stated softly.

"I'm through listening to this Pete. SG1 is my life."

"And I'm just asking to be part of that life! But you push me away. I'm not a fucking date on a schedule, Sam, you can't just fit me in whenever it suits you."

She sighed as she turned around away from him, clenching her fingers around the sink.

"Pete... I love you. I do. But if this relationship is going to go forward you have to understand that my job will always come first." She raised a hand at his affronted protests. "It always has, and it always will. Every relationship I have ever had, or ever wanted, has suffered from it, I know this. But it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. And if you can't handle that you might as well pack up and leave now."

"What about the day you come home with a missing leg, or a bullet in the spine and another dead teammate? Where will the Air Force be then? A pat on the head and a gold watch, and it's like you were never there. They're using you, Sam."

She whirled around. "Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I'm using them? That maybe they're just a foothold that I'm using to further my career? My life for the past 8 years is a life I could never have dreamed of, and I'll do whatever it takes to continue living it. Jesus Pete, I know I'm smart. I know that any day I could just resign and take a position at some fancy research company where I would have double the pay. But I don't want that, because that's not who I am. SG-1 is who I am. And if playing the dutiful Air Force Major with a bunch of failed relationships on my belt is the price to pay, so be it."

"Are you using me?" He stated quietly, simply.

The anger on her face broke. She let out a long breath.

"God, Pete, no. I love you. I do, and you goddamn well know that. I laid this all out for you at the beginning... this is just how it is."

Pete, defeated, glanced at the floor. The seconds ticked by.

"This is how it is." He repeated quietly. He smiled, sadly. "I guess I just never realized _how_ important it was to you." He looked seriously at her for a minute, considering. "I... Sam, I promise I'll do my best. If this is how it's going to be, then I'll try. But only with you help. I'm not going to do the effort alone."

She nodded contemplatively, before grinning brilliantly.

It was okay, with the others. He understood them... and her. But as he watched her slip her hands around his hips and into his back pockets, Jack O'Neill realized at that moment that something inexplicably fundamental had shifted. This time, things were different. She wasn't a golden child anymore; she didn't have her youth and innocence to fall back on. For the first time in her life, she had seen the opportunity to move forward, and, grudgingly, acceptingly, she took it.

The urge to throw up overwhelmed him, and he knew then with an absolute certainty that it wasn't just the beer.

Quietly, stealthily he slipped into the bathroom, knowing full well that they could hear his retches. Afterwards he stared at his reflection in the mirror, eyes wandering over deep creases and ever-whitening hair. He couldn't shake off the traces of her warm, low laughter.

He had lost her.

Lights flicked off in the kitchen, the hum of the dishwasher thrummed against the walls.

He was thankful for the darkness in the hallway as he returned to his room, knowing that Sam would automatically assume it was Daniel. He nimbly stepped over his sprawled teammate before resting on the bed, raising a knee and resting a hand on his chest. He absentmindedly picked at his t-shirt, staring at the long lines of the blinds stretch out in a diagonal formation across the room.

'Every relationship I have ever had, or ever wanted, has suffered from it, I know this. But it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make.'

He closed his eyes.

Every relationship she had ever wanted.

She was never his.

He could almost feel the outside shadows chased by streams light from passing cars skitter across his face.

You're a fool, Jack O'Neill.

The next morning he leaves before everyone wakes up, assured with the knowledge that he'll never be back.

* * *

**Jack**

* * *

Rodney McKay strolled down the halls of the Atlantis base, whistling as the cord from his earphones flailed around his arm. He rotated his thumb on his brand-new spiffy iPod, knowing that Sam would just _love _the track he was listening to.

He really hoped she wasn't going to be too hopeful at his gesture; it was a well-known fact that the Colonel held lingering feelings for him. He sighed, shaking his head dolefully. He had thought that by now she would have moved past the memories of their old magic together, but the looks that he caught her giving him spoke otherwise.

Oh well, he pityingly raised his head skywards, just one more disappointed woman that he could add to his list of heartbroken conquests.

He finally reached the grey slate of Sam's quarters, double-checking to see if the song track was right before knocking on the door.

And waited.

He knocked again, taking an earbud out and twirling it.

And waited.

He rolled his eyes and groaned, knocking harder. This time he heard rustling and a mumbled expletive.

_Finally._

The door swung open, interrupting him mid-whistle as the tone died away. His gaze widened in disbelieving shock as he was met by a glowering, bare-chested, boxer-clad General O'Neill.

"McKay." He grumbled dispassionately, an unpleasant glare emanating from his sleepy eyes.

A second passed, as Rodney stared in shock. Something brightened in the General's face.

"McKay." He repeated, a wicked touch of delight in his voice. He smiled evilly.

"What brings you around?

Rodney continued to stare, openmouthed.

Jack, insinuating a persona of a patient man merely waiting for a response, opened the door wide while leaning one arm against the doorframe, revealing behind him a glimpse of long pale legs peeking out from the bed.

This time the scientist gawked, his glance fixed on the softness of a bare thigh.

Seconds ticked by as the General leaned against the wall, staring down patiently at the scientist.

"Well."

He finally caught his attention, not fully erased of the fish-gaping expression.

"Uh, is uh... is Sa- Colonel Carter, ah, available?"

A satisfied, wolfish smirk split across Jack's face as he crossed his ankles. "She's, ooh, how do I put it..." He pretended to consider his answer while bobbing the door wider and wider before unrepentantly narrowing the crack, his eyes twinkling at McKay's unconscious head tilting. "She's... indisposed at the moment." He chuckled mischievously, knowingly. "You know how exhausted the Colonel can get after a good workout."

They both pretended to ignore the disbelieving groan coming from the bed sheets.

McKay stuttered for words, unable to form a sentence. Something caught Jack's attention.

"Hey, is that an iPod? Carter's been wanting one for awhile now."

Wordlessly, Rodney handed the iPod to the General's expectant grasp. He nodded succinctly, tossing it behind him so it could land on the pillow.

"Well." He jutted a thumb towards the bed behind him. "I have calories to kill, and as fun as this is..." With a single finger he swung the door shut on the shocked expression of the scientist.

He backed away and smiled softly at the closed door, his fingers toying with the hairs on his chest.

He laughed then, a deep rich laugh that he only reserved for her.

He laughed less with the prospect of embarrassing McKay, but rather because after almost a decade, Jack O'Neill finally got what he wanted.

He laughed, because hey, he got the girl.

Only took nine goddamn years.

She had a hand up to her forehead in embarrassment, rolling her eyes at his smug smirk.

'"Oh Jack." She murmured reproachfully, swatting at him weakly. But she was already putting one bud into her ear, reaching to position the other earphone into his own. The music wafted and drifted into the quarters.

He covered his body over hers, resting the weight of his head on her breast, his teeth grazing her skin as he grinned.

But _damn_, was it was nice to finally, *finally*, be on the other side of that door.

* * *

_Nothing fancy, most of it written incredibly late at night when I was half asleep._

_But oh well._

_The other day, after I had reread this and cringed, I made a promise to myself to... simplify my sentences. If that makes sense. So, from now, I'll say goodbye to sentence fragments and excessive comma uses. _


End file.
